Forget about Annie
by che-guevara
Summary: Julia's gone, Spike is back on the Bebop. Faye is not back yet. His POV during that short period of time. One-shot.


                The bottle of whiskey glowed in the dark. He poured some of it in the glass, and immediately drank half of it. It didn't taste good, it didn't taste bad. It didn't taste at all. But he felt it go down his throat, through his chest, to his stomach, warming up everything on its way. He sat there for a few minutes, looking at the wall in front of him, not thinking anything. He sipped some more of the whiskey, then poured more in the glass. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, and took one out. He silently lighted it after a single click of the lighter, and inhaled the smoke. It felt good, rushing after the whiskey, catching up with it in his lungs. 

                He could hear Jet walk around in the next compartment, his heavy legs slamming the floor. The rhythmic thuds brought him back to reality, and with dry, detached eyes he re-visited the fight. He saw Annie and Julia, both lying dead. She was a friend. She was a lover. Two women he loved. He really loved them. Really, he loved them. Now he felt completely blank, empty, unable to breath. He had lost his purpose in life. They were gone.

                Actually, he didn't care much about Annie at this point. She was a good friend, and he would be sad for her death if Julia hadn't followed her. Now Julia was gone. They had spent a few hours together after meeting again. Hours that would last a lifetime. But she was gone now. She was gone. Julia was gone. Gone. She would never come back. She would never look at him with those sad blue eyes again.

                He shook his head. She was really gone. He had lived his life looking for her, perhaps not really wanting to find her, just LOOKING for her. Looking, and looking. And he wanted to keep looking. Looking today, looking tomorrow. Looking for the only woman who was alive for him. Looking, and looking, and not finding her. But the sensation of his heart beating every single time her name was mentioned was the best sensation in the world. Now, too, his heart would beat every time he heard her name. Except he could never hope to tell her about it. That was the point of his heart beating. To tell her about it. To share it with her. To talk with her. Talk, and talk, and talk, and talk. And lose himself in the talking, and the kissing, and the touching, and the whispering, and the sex, and more of the talking. To lose himself in the moment, and live it as if it would last forever.

                But now he couldn't hope to do that. Fuck. She was really gone. What now? What could he do now? He didn't feel too much like living. He didn't feel too much like eating, drinking, talking, making love or making money. He didn't feel too much like speaking to Faye or Jet at the end of the day.

                The annoying, profound moaning of the Bebop's engine was cradling him to sleep. His lids were heavy, his breathing steady. He was so tried he couldn't close his hands. He told himself he would stand up, but he knew he wouldn't. And he didn't. He just sat there, a burning cigarette sticking out of his tight, colorless lips, the glass of whiskey patiently waiting, the bottle still glowing with a weird light. His compartment didn't have any windows. It was all black, brown and gray. He was all black, brown and gray. He didn't know what to do next.

                What could he do? Julia was gone. She was really, really gone. "Convince yourself!" he thought. "She's really, really gone. No more Julia".

                He could just stay. Jet wouldn't mind, as long as he kept catching some bounties once in a while. And Faye would be back. Of course she would be back. That bitch couldn't keep from coming back. She would be back. And when she was back, he could have fun with her. But the fun would be fake, superficial, artificial, unreal, stupid.

                No. He had to go. No more Julia meant no more Jet, no more Faye. When a man loses the one woman he truly love, he wants to be alone. Really alone. Really, really alone. He couldn't stand being with others. He had to be on his own.

                Vicious… Vicious. Vicious, Vicious, Vicious, Vicious. That's it. Vicious. That son of a bitch. That double-crossing son of a bitch. Vicious, that bastard.

                He killed her. That bastard killed her. He killed her. He killed her. He killed him. That bastard… 

                His eyes remained fixed, dry, except he wasn't tired anymore. He reached for the glass of whiskey, and lighted a new cigarette.

                "That bastard" he said aloud. He killed Julia.

                Rage. Insurmountable raged suddenly filled him. He felt angry, like never before, like he had never felt before. Rage. Vicious. Vicious rage. "That bastard…"

                He slowly walked toward the living room. It was dark. He reached for the switche, touched it, but pulled his arm back. He sat on the couch and tossed his half-burned cigarette in the ashtray. Dream. This was all a dream. Just a bad dream. Just a bad dream, but she died in the bad dream, and the bastard killed her.

                He heard Jet's feet coming toward him. The stars were shining. He tried to see a falling star, but couldn't. He tried again, but couldn't. He thought no one ever saw falling stars. He thought it was all a myth. He sipped his whiskey. That bastard…

                He made up his mind. Revenge is a weird feeling, he thought, you can never logically justify it. But it's always there, deep within you, and turns you into a monster.

                But a monster is better than the son of a bitch who finished her off. And Annie, too. Yeah, Annie. Forget about Annie…


End file.
